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We are just being these days, each mourning in their own way and doing our best to move on as we explore the breadth and depth of our new normal.

Flags are at half mast and the entire country is in mourning until Wednesday. News outlets have added a black band to their logo, the symbol of peace with the Eiffel tower inside can be seen everywhere, and for a brief moment, politicians are behaving, showing a united front in the face of division.

The government is currently meeting at Versailles to discuss prolonging the state of emergency. Their goal is increased powers in tracking, following and punishing future terrorists. Depriving offenders of their citizenship and exiling them from France. Last night 2 Daesh camps were bombed in Syria while dozens of homes were raided in France and Belgium. Many have been arrested.

That is what is happening in France. Museums are reopening, stores remain virtually empty, restaurants are full. The show goes on as theaters play to half full houses. The Eiffel Tower is lit bleu, blanc, rouge. News stations show monuments across the globe boasting the same garb, and the French people are very touched by the international show of support.

While putting on a very brave front, many are frightened. A heat lamp bulb bursts and people stampede the street screaming that shots have been fired. This happened in at least half a dozen spots last night. And it is at this moment the true Parisian spirit comes out. Strangers open their doors inviting others in. Refuge is offered with a glass of wine, an understanding hug, a charger for one’s phone.

Our daughter was caught up in one of these crowds. She, a friend and 13 strangers were rescued by a bunch of girls celebrating a birthday. Once safe in the flat upstairs, they checked social media, which confirmed shots had been fired in the Marais (they had not). They called family to say they were safe and asked for news. One street away the bars were over flowing with partiers, oblivious of the mayhem just steps away.

Deciding she was too rattled to get home on her own, we came to pick her up and learned that in the chaos, she had been separated from her dog. Confident the neighborhood was safe, we went in search of her cocker spaniel, spending our adrenaline and proving to her that all was well.

“What did you loose?” A woman called from her first floor window on the rue des Rosiers. She had not seen the dog, but she had collected a trunk load of bags, purses and valuables people had abandoned in fear and was looking out for their owners.

After an hour of searching we headed back to the car. A man stopped us, remembering that we had been looking for a dog. A dog had been found at a café and a patron had already taken him to the vet to have his id tag read. Everyone was looking out for one another and for us. Our daughter was reunited dog and joyous licks ensued.

This morning a friend sent me a text asking to meet at Café de Flore just before noon. At the strike of 12 the maître d’hôte’s voice came over a loudspeaker asking everyone to respect a minute of silence with the nation. Japanese tourists, businessmen, elderly ladies, everyone rose and stood in silence for 60 seconds in a moment of solidarity.

Tonight I am watching my favourite news satire show, Le Petit Journal. The news caster is announcing the name and ages of many of those killed. One of the names is that of a young woman on his staff. Another young woman from his staff, her friend, left the hospital this morning. There is no color left in his face as he speaks of his colleagues.

The list includes names that are French, Italian, Hispanic, Portugese, Senegalese, Tunisian, Moroccan, Algerian… many of the names are disturbing reminders that most victims of Islamic extremism are Muslims.

The Paris motto is Fluctuat nec mergitur , “Tossed but not sunk”. On digital billboards we declare,

We’re not afraid.

United together
Against terrorism and extremism
Love Music Euphoria Joy

He’s standing here in the room with us as bright and surreal as his name implies. Elworth. Elworth my pet pink elephant who has been filling this blog space since early October. Many of you have written, sending encouragement or just checking in.

It happened so abruptly. I was here posting regularly with joy and then one day, just like that, I wasn’t. And you were all so patient. I am touched and amazed every day by how many people read my blog, check in to see what is up with Mr French and our little corner of the world, even when the site grows cold with neglect. Your appreciation has meant the world to me. And yet I stopped writing, just like that. No warning. No explanation.

I have been wanting to blog more often, yet I can’t bring myself to the keyboard to begin a post. I don’t understand the why, so I don’t know how to share it in this space. There are many factors… my family’s need for just a bit more privacy, an influx of professional writing jobs that have drained me of words, the need to write more about the world around me and less about just me.

After 6 months, I think it is fairly official. This blog is on break. I won’t be killing it, there are possible adventures ahead that would be a thrill to share, but for now, I am moving on, and I hope you’ll join me.

I have started a new blog: Only In Paris. It is about exactly that: experiences, people, places you’re only likely to run in to in Paris. I hope you’ll join me. Or at least check in out from time to time. There will always be a bit of me in there and I look forward to sharing the weird, wonderful and uncommon bits of this city I love so dearly.

With the new name, comes a few new addresses.
You’ll find me on :
Instragram @Only_N_Paris
Twitter @OnlyNParis
FB https://www.facebook.com/pages/Only-in-Paris/1418512485096911?ref=hl

I hope to see you on this new adventure.

And a huge merci to you all for being there in my stats everyday, for posting your comments, checking me out on social media and showing you’re there. Many of you have watched me grow from an abruptly single, unemployed Mom of teens to the very happy travel journalist /copywriter I am today. You kept me going when I didn’t know I could. I hope that you all know you have made a tremendous difference in somebody’s life. Merci.

There are two benevolent kings in Paris; Arnault and Pinault. One owns nearly half of the luxury fashion industry through his group, LVMH, the other owns nearly half of the luxury fashion industry through his group, Kering (formerly Gucci). Without knowing either gentleman, nor having done any kind of research into their relationship, it is easy to imagine that there is a bit of rivalry between the two.

Both men collect contemporary art and at some point they both thought it would be great if they shared their collections with their neighbors. Generous, indeed, with a bit of ego involved and probably some tax benefits to sweeten the deal. Monsieur Pinault, who has the richer collection, aimed his sites towards the abandoned Renault factory on Ile Seguin in Boulogne. Easily accessible by Paris metro, it seemed like Eden.

But the Mayor of Boulogne started setting up road blocks and things got crazy in a uniquely Parisian kind of way until M Pinault had enough and took his art elsewhere. The wildly popular destination museum Palazzo Grassiin Venice, to be exact.

Not to be out done, his rival, M Arnault started plans for his own museum, insisting on the great architect Frank Gehry and coming up with an ingenious plan to build his monument within the Jardin d’Acclimatation in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. I won’t go into the specifics, by putting the museum inside of the Jardin’s concession, the project avoided alot of red tape and was given a green light.

The result is Master Gehry’s Magnum Opus, the stupendous Fondation Louis Vuitton. It is a signature Gehry piece, looking very much like the crumpled wads of paper the architect uses for inspiration. But here, his twisting curves are supported by warm, wood covered beams and dressed in a light infused glassed; a poem of contradictions. The upper floors are a maze of terraces, playing with the scenery beyond. At one moment the pushing, pulling turn of frame have the visitor feeling propelled into the woods beyond, while also feeling that the woods have risen to join them on the deck, embraced by the building and the environment just beyond. It is breathtaking.

Inside, the spaces are random and disconnected. The first thing one sees are the architect’s articulated fish floating the swanky mod restaurant, Le Frank. Sbove Visitors either love or hate the Olafur Eliasson grotto below street level, but nobody is left indifferent by the diagonal fountain that flows from the Jardin d’Acclimatation to the grotto. The waves of water are irresistibly enchanting as they flow across the wide, even steps. And the auditorium with seats that fold down into the floor and an Ellsworth Kelly back drop, is so welcoming, you look forward to your next excuse for a visit, before having left for the day.

My favorite piece in the collection; Where the slaves live by Adrian Villar Rojas

You may have noticed that this review is about the building. Disappointingly, it is the best reason to go. The art collection itself is, uhm, well, rather thin… I was blown away by a Gerhard Richter room that had disappeared by second visit, as had a rather amusing set of old fashioned telephones that played famous people reciting an eclectic collection of poetry. On this visit? Well, the Giacometti sculpture is impressive and I was amused, if not totally blown away by the Olafur Eliasson exhibition, which is surprising, because I particularly adore this artist. But the pieces chosen were not his masterpieces.

I hope the museum gets a serious curator in there who know how to put on a show. But until then, it is still an extraordinary addition to the Parisian landscape, well worth an afternoon.

Bobo, boho, and now, ipstairs… the trendy young French of each generation. They were bourgeois bohèmes the affluent dressed as hippies, looking to escape traditional French esthetics, without sacrificing their creature comforts. As time lapsed, they grew more and more nomadic, discovering New York and falling under the charms of SOHO, adopting an even chicer look that doesn’t pretend to turn a back on the fashion world, but embraces it.

Last Friday, Mr French played hookie and after a fruitful day running errands under sub-zero blue skies, we had stopped to reward ourselves with a Hotel’politain from Le Bar. Originally the Love Pavilion, Oscar Wilde lived and died here, Dali hung his hat and Liz flirted with her beloved Richard Burton in the rooms above. In the early 2000’s eclectic design Jacques Garcia gave the place a face lift with a funky blend of violet silks in velour green foliage. The bobo’s loved it, the boho’s were not far behind and now, the hipsters have arrived wearing his and her matching fur trimmed military coats, the obligatory plaid flannel shirts and Fonzi slicked hair.

Unexpectedly, some girlfriends from the neighborhood walked in for a little joy juice and I joined them to let Mr French review the emails he’d missed while giving me his undivided attention all day.

The hipsters were busy chatting away.

– What’s a VeuBo? I heard her ask.

– A guy over 50, who wears colored pants, listens to LP albums and drives a sports car.

I glanced at Mr French in his tomato red pants, the bag of albums in the chair facing him and I shot him a grin.

–It’s your sports car, he hissed, referring to the company car that was parked at home.

I couldn’t help laughing at the joke we’ve become, living caricatures, of the microcosm we live in, like the painting on the back of a grease stained pizza box.

That’s what happens when you live here too long. Silly little things turn into abstract bi-lingualisms that are funny to one and no one else. The ultimate inside joke.

NOTE// no photos were allowed, but I was feeling a little criminal, so a stole a few. Enjoy!

A craving for frozen sugar & fat isn’t what’s put me in such a giddy mood, it’s fashion! Yesterday, I headed to the Art Deco-glorious Palais de la Porte Dorée Musée de l’Histoire de l’Immigration, which is a really long name for a very cool museum on immigration to France. They’ve got artifacts and fish. Yes fish. Because there is an aquarium, too. We didn’t have time to visit it, but my museum date, Karen, started wondering if maybe the fish were all imported, making them immigrants of a sort, too.

We were at the musée to see their latest show, Fashion Mix; local fashion from foreign designers.

Lately, pundits are bemoaning that French ingenuity is dying, or has emigrated to London (the French are calling it the second largest city in France which is funny/tragic on so many levels…). Financial crisis, Charlie Hebdo, an extended “Sales” Season. Paris is going through a time of Existential Angst. But then the pundits site the fashion industry, naming all the foreign designers leading the great French Fashion houses; Lagerfeld at Chanel, Elbaz at Lanvin, Simons at Dior, Slimane at YSL…. the list does seem to get depressingly long very quickly. We’re doomed!

Fashion Mix sets that logic on it’s ear, celebrating the art and creativity brought to French fashion houses since fashion went retail. The show starts with a reminder that the man who first took dressmaking from the lower classes and made it high class was Charles Worth. Vurt? A Frenchman would pronounce, awkwardly. It is rather a mouthful for a Français, because Mister Worth was très, très anglais.

Mr Worth was in Paris working for drapers, but made dresses for his co-worker/wife on the side. Clients would see her gorgeous garb and ask for one of their own. Their French bosses were not impressed and didn’t think it was a very good idea when Worth suggested they go into dress making, so he found a Swedish investor, started dressing Princess Eugènie and a multi-billion dollar, Parisian industry was born.They show Elsa Schiaparelli’s request for citizenship, Cristobàl Balenciaga’s official Basque documents, passports, and papers from designers that have flooded French fashion from Europe, Asia and Africa.

The show goes on to display all the great French fashion designed by passionate Francophiles. It is the ultimate cocktail party with Comme des Garçons dancing by Ann Demeulemeester, Jean Dessès taking a spin by Mariano Fortuny. Old mixes with new, the traditionally staid with the avant garde.

Creative entries in the guest book show I wasn’t the only one inspired by the show…

After the show, we’d planned on finding a charming café nearby for some serious girl time, but the Palais was so 1930’s beautiful with mosaic floors and mural dressed walls, we didn’t want to leave. And we didn’t have to because they have a perfect little salon with an excellent tea by Thé des Ecrivains. Sat there chatting, watch the snow flutter by, dreaming of the summer when we’ll be back to appreciate their lovely terrace, over looking the entrance to the Bois de Vincennes.

The party goes on until May 31st, so if you happen to be in Paris, put on your party shoes and cha cha out to the surprising Palais at the Porte Dorée.

Or not. He has been away. First it was Beijing and now Atlanta, eating crab cakes and making my mouth water with jealousy. He came home to Paris for the blink of an eye between the two trips and instead of celebrating our reunion, I was laid up in bed, over thrown by la grippe. It is going around these days and everyone is blaming it our time marching for Charlie Hebdo. Even those who are laid up, but didn’t attend the rally are blaming it on the event. Sorry Charlie.

With a free Saturday on his hands and a sick me at home, Mr French decided to make himself useful and did the grocery shopping, a task I usually fit between lunch breaks when working from home. I had been working in house at an agency all week and in bed in between, so the cupboards we beyond Old Mother Hubbard bare.

Not being a man for doing things like us mere mortals, Mr French treated himself to cart at the Grand Epicerie de Paris. Em and I felt like princesses for the rest of the week, coming home each night to gourmet meals made easy. So what are the rich and famous cooking up at home these days? Probably nothing, but here is what the Grand Epicerie is offering them.

We’ve been starting our mornings with these unctuous delicious sheep’s milk yogurts from the Basque region. We first discovered them while on our annual holiday in Hossegor, so they are not only delicious, but they taste like vacation to us! At the Grand Ep’, you’ll find them in blueberry, chestnut, cherry and fig.

Mr French didn’t forget that Em also love her Pink Lady apples, a cross bred cultivar of Golden Delicious and Lady Williams from Australia, grown in France.

And then there is dinner. Mr French stumbled upon bowls of pre-prepared veggies that I never would have touched because they are expensive and the packaging wasteful and not at all organic. But they made the most delicious meals, so I am going to have to re-think my think. Veggies, nothing but beautifully prepared, carefully selected, raw veggies by C Zon, ready for the wok. 8 minutes, high heat and you are done. They were so incredibly good that I didn’t have remind Em to finish her greens and they even inspired this post. If you are in Paris, looking for a quick gourmet meal to enjoy in your home kitchen, this is the way to go. There are several different combos, so you can mix it up and feel like you’re having something very different every night of the week. Adding a splash of teriyaki sauce, a dash of Mexican seasonings, a splash of paprika and you’ll never get bored. Hopping, happening, and healthy! Just add a grilled meat if you need meat, et voilà everyone is thrilled.

I think that now would be the appropriate moment to mention that this is not a sponsored post. I have never done a sponsored post and I am not interested in doing a sponsored post. These veggies were paid for, full retail, by Mr French. Now you know just how very, very excited, I want to scream if from the Parisian zinc roof tops, Californians can get about their greens.

And for the nights I really could not cook, there were prepared meals, proffered by a company called Cooked by. Mr French had gotten some dishes created by a Carribean chef Suzy Plantain. There are no additives, preservatives, or even stabilizers in these meals. The fat count is low, the flavour count high and they were another life saving hit as the flu hit harder.

I am a nuke-ophobe. I have never had a microwave before moving into this flat, and I only own one now by default, so I was particularly thrilled these meals can be heated with a simple bain marie. No nukes!

Finally, la pièce de resistance. Chocolate bars by François Pralus, perhaps the best chocolate bar manufacture in the world today.

Mr French returned this morning and I sense a terrible cold coming on. Something so violent he will have to return to hunter gather mode for just one more appetizing week.

The 12th day of Christmas is the Epiphany. I don’t know much about the Epiphany and I could Google it if I cared, but all I really care to know I have learned in French bakeries/ The Epiphany has something to do with the 3 Kings, who I had always thought were wise men, but I am sticking with kings in this story because in France we celebrate this holiday with Kings cakes. Cookie Monster can have his way with sawdust disks, me like Kings Cakes.

In Paris the Galette des Rois is a disc of puffed pastry stuffed with almond paste. David Lebovitzclaims their easy to make in this blog post. For now, I am taking his word for it. Not because I’m lazy, but because the only thing I like about Parisian Kings cakes are the tiny porcelain prizes hidden inside, and the crown. I love wearing the crown for the evening.

You’d think that would be a major relief to a girl looking to reduce her waste line (that’s a pun,not a typo, for a change), but the crafty guild of Parisian bakers have another Kings cake to tempt aimless souls like my own. In southern France the Galette des Rois, becomes the Couronne des Rois, the Kings’ crowd. A simple brioche, perfumed with orange blossom water and studded with candied fruit is shaped into a crown, baked and dressed in sugar crystal diamonds. A girls best friend indeed!

After 3 months of living without wheat flour, yesterday I could not resist this scrumptious treat and splurged on a little individual bun that was sitting in the window at Eric Kayser, immediately facing the metro exit I use coming home at the end of the day. I didn’t even make it home, sneaking (and savouring!) guilty bites while picking up some fresh fruits and vegetables for the house. It was truly fit for a king.

So divine that I have had an Epiphany of my own; Time to change metro stations!

Since the Charlie Hebdo massacre I have been reporting on what I see and hear in Paris. Next week I promise to return to more entertaining subjects. Until then, there is so much going on; cyber-attacks, an apology from the US, and the distribution of 5 million copies of Charlie Hebdo as France rallies to support the right to freedom of expression, even if they were never big fans of the publication. It is horrific that journalists and police officers were killed for what they do, but even more unsettling are those who had no choice. Jews who were killed for what they are.

Its not easy being a Jew in France today. In 2006 a young man, Ilan Halimi, was kidnapped, tortured, and murdered because he was Jewish. In 2012 a Jewish school was attacked: 3 children, 1 adult and 3 soldiers died. Last month a couple was robbed in their apartment in Creteil and the wife was raped, because, according to the criminals, they were Jewish. Then there was Hyper Casher…

When I am asked if France is antisemitic, I still answer with an emphatic, “No”. These acts were committed by Extremists. Extremism is not just a French problem. It is a global issue, that has even the Israeli government scrambling to protect its population.

After the attacks, French Prime Minister Manuel Valls declared, “Antisemitism is not an opinion, it is a crime.” and legally that’s true. French law defends free speech until it incites hatred. Saying that the holocaust never happened is illegal and it has been for a very long time. It is legal for the illustrators at Charlie Hebdo to draw an image of Muhammad carrying the “Je Suis Charlie” sign because the message is tolerance. By the same token, comedian Dieudonné’s* joke about wanting to deport a Jew incites hatred and is illegal.

M Valls also declared that without Jews, France would no longer be France. Jews are an integral thread in the cosmopolitan fabric of the country and the population thrives. Last year’s Nobel Prize for literature is a French Jew, Jews are prominent in national politics, and fashion designer John Galliano has been a pariah in the French fashion world since making antisemitic comments. The French government is doing what it can to protect the Jewish population, most recently deploying 10,500 soldiers to protect Jews and their establishments. Therein lies the problem. Many are asking themselves if they want to live in a country where they need military protection. It is scary knowing that not very far from my front door, there are gangs of people who would not mind seeing me dead simply for something I did not choose and can not change.

Locals news has been asking Jews how they feel living in France. The overwhelming consensus is that they are not afraid for their own safety, but they are very worried for their children. Passing armed soldiers, going through a metal detector, and being pat searched to enter a house of prayer is intimidating. Seeing soldiers, their hands on their weapons as parents take their children to school, feels like war. It is heart breaking.

Jews have not gone into hiding. Religious Jews are still on the streets wearing kippot, shopping in kosher markets and heading into synagogues. That is what Jews do, go on with life, defying those who would end it. Hopefully this defiance will remind the world of the words of Franklin D Roosevelt as he united a country shortly before the Second World War: “We have nothing to fear, but fear itself.”

*Dieudonné is a local comedian who is often in trouble with French authorities for his antisemitism. It strikes me as tragically ironic that his name translate to “God Given”

All of France is asking itself a question today. What happens after Charlie?

Before Charlie there was Ahmed. Ahmed Marabet, a handsome Frenchman in his 40s: a policeman who had been passing nearby on bicycle when he saw the terrorists. Ahmed Marabet just happened to be Muslim and he was slaughtered along with everyone else last Wednesday.

After the massacre, the world cried Je Suis Charlie, in honor of all the victims of the attack. Almost instantly, Muslims started posting Je Suis Ahmed. This was not in denial of the loss to our nation nor was it meant to belittle the attack on French liberty. This was a cry, “I am Muslim. I am not an Extremist terrorist, I am a French(wo)man ready to die for my country.” It was a reminder that we can not confuse Muslims with Extremists who represent a miniscule percentage of those following Islam today.

This weekend Monsieur Marabet’s family held a press conference to deliver the message themselves. They are French. They are also Muslim. Like all French citizens, they believe in Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité. The terrorists, they made clear, were insane and in no way represent Islam or their beliefs.

Mustapha Ourra, another Muslim, was one of the employees at Charlie Hebdo killed during the massacre and there are no reports on how many of the 10s of 1000s of law enforcement officers who brought an end to our three day nightmare were also Muslim.

The family of the terrorist who attacked Hyper Casher also came out publicly. They apologized profusely. The had been estranged for years because this coward had gotten lost in Extremist hatred. They had not raised him into this insanity and his dogma in no way reflects their beliefs.

One of the heros of the Hyper Casher attacks is a Muslim employee who was able to hide six people, including a 1 month old baby in the freezer. He cut off the lights and the cooling system, ensuring their safety before risking his own life to run to the police. He was a moving target to both the terrorist and the police who suspected him of being the terrorist. Eventually, he was able to advise them on where the hostages were and the store’s layout.

Since the murders, several mosques in France have been attacked. This is counterproductive in a country that needs to unify. And it is a tragic example to the rest of the world. Muslims are not the problem. Extremists are the problem and this is true across the globe.

Thankfully, experts are coming on local news shows to defend the Muslim community. We are reminded that the biggest victims of these Extremists are, by far, other Muslims. In France, most Extremist hatred is being taught to disenfranchised men in the prison system. It is being taught by criminals who never studied Islam. They just take what they find online and use the most destructive bits to rally a crowd of violent people, giving them a target for their anger.

Prominent, educated Muslim leaders, like the Imam of Drancy, Hassen Chalghoumi, have been working with the French government to find a solution for years. His projects unite Muslim, Catholic and Jewish leaders across France and have even included a visit to Israel.

As an individual, who is neither a political nor a religious leader, I can not make a significant difference in this convoluted mess. But I am a writer, dedicated to the power of words.

Those animals? Those terrorist who dressed their hatred in the words of the Quran? They were not Muslims. They were Extremists. I am now committed to making this vital distinction every time I speak, write or think about the Islamic faith. Muslims are not Extremists. Extremists are not Muslim. Je Suis Ahmed.